The Journal
by QueenOfTheUniverse
Summary: You met me in the hospital handing me the journal, and I knew, this was your half of the ordeal. But all it did was remind me of the first journal you ever gave me, and the reason why. NG. Rated R. Noncon mentioned. One shot. Romance/Angst/h/c. Post GD.


CSI: The Journal: One Shot

A/N: So, I know I kept saying "Sanctuary" would be posted next. I'm still working on it. I've already finished my NaNoWriMo novel this year, though I'm still in Wrimo mode, so I need to slowly break out of it. However, while I was taking a short break from "Sanctuary" the other day, I stumbled onto this story which I wrote a few months back and realized it was really good. I hadn't meant to write this when I did, but the idea just barged into my brain and wouldn't let go. And since it needed so little editing, I figured I'd get it out there as a way to break back into fanfic after a few months away (gosh, it feels like forever!) Sorry for all the angst in this piece, but I hope you like it. Heh... I don't know why I keep apologizing anymore... lol. You all know I'm the Queen of Angst.

* * *

Warrick says you're out in the hallway, that you want to see me. I'm a mess. I haven't seen myself in a mirror yet, though I know I look horrible. I don't want you to see me this way, covered in ant bites, but I need you.

I tell him to send you in and he wishes me well before leaving.

When you arrive in my doorway, your sad eyes light up. Even so, I can still see the pain you've been through all these long hours. You still have a smudge of dirt on your forehead and another on your cheek. I want to brush them away.

You come over, and without a word you lie down beside me and get as close to me as possible. There's a journal in your hand and a pen. You rest it on my chest as you wrap an arm around me. I know what this is. I know what you're doing, because you've done this before.

Seeing the journal reminds me of the first one you ever gave me, and the reason why...

* * *

I came home that night after pulling a double. I was exhausted, and jealous because you didn't have to work late. You probably spent the day in bed watching tv, like you usually did when I got held over and you didn't.

I knew you were home because your car was in the driveway but something was off. As I walked through the kitchen one of the chairs lay on its side. In the livingroom a broken glass was shattered all over the hearth and the couch had been pushed out of place. It's not like you to leave a mess. Not like this.

I called your name. But got no response.

Upstairs I checked our room, half expecting you to be sound asleep in bed. You weren't.

The master bathroom was empty. So was the other. The door to the guest room was half closed when it was usually open all the way so the room wouldn't get musty. I pushed it open and stopped in my tracks.

You were there on the bed facing away from the door as best you could. You'd tried to curl up into a ball, but your wrists were bound to the headboard. Your skin was not covered by even a single sheet and bruises were already forming all along your body from what I could see.

I moved then, your name coming out of my mouth like I'd had the flu. When I saw your face, tears tried to well up in my eyes, but failed. Another large bruise covered your cheek, as if you'd been punched there. You were gagged, a large handkerchief stuffed in your mouth while another wrapped around your head and held the first in place.

Someone had gripped your arms hard. They'd been rough with you, and I didn't want to think about what they'd done to you, under your own roof. In our house.

You wouldn't talk when I untied you. I mentioned getting an SAE kit, but you only shook your head.

Your tongue was swollen, and the rope used to tie you down had nearly cut into the soft skin of your wrists, telling me you'd been gagged and bound for hours. I wondered how many of those hours you'd had company. I shivered at the thought.

You sat up and hugged yourself while I went to get you a bottle of water. When I returned with one of your favorite stainless steel canteens you still refused to talk. But at least you drank the water. I didn't have to ask to know what happened and I made a mental note to stock the fridge with water because I knew you would need it and I knew you hated warm water.

When the bottle was empty you tried to move your jaw and tongue a little. I suggested taking you to get evidence collected.

This time you finally spoke, your voice sounding thick and hardly above a whisper. You told me no. You didn't want to make a case out of it.

I didn't understand, but you insisted.

"Please... get him off me," you begged. "Wash him off me."

I understood then. I wanted him dead. But I wouldn't turn you into a case. I wouldn't have someone taking pictures of you, seeing you like this. Nobody should know about this.

You looked so innocent and vulnerable as I scooped you up into my arms and carried you into the bathroom after I'd gotten the tub full of steaming water.

I took your favorite sponge and soaked it. But as my hand neared your leg under the water you shied away from me, your body tense. I promised I wouldn't hurt you and you finally began to relax as I started with your shoulder, dripping water over your skin and down your arm before gently rubbing it clean.

I heard a sniffle and it was then I saw the silent tears running down your face and neck. I grabbed you up and held you and didn't let go for a long time, until the water was cold.

We didn't sleep that night. We kept the tv on in the livingroom and sat on the couch curled up in each other, watching horrible infomercials. I kept you drinking water and eventually the swelling went down in your tongue though you still did not say much.

You went to work the next night as if nothing had happened, but I could see the telltale signs that something wasn't right, even if no one else did.

It wasn't until two weeks later that you came to bed one morning and handed me a journal. I was confused. It wasn't my birthday. Or Christmas. And you knew I wasn't the type to use a journal. But then you explained about the bullying in school and how your therapist had suggested you write down everything you couldn't say out loud.

And I understood then, what you were giving me. I couldn't stop the tears as I pulled you to me and refused to let go.

It took me awhile to bring myself to read what you'd written. I read a little at a time, as much as I could stomach in one sitting. Sometimes it was as much as one paragraph or one page, but eventually I finished it.

You were curled up beside me in bed when I did. I left a kiss on your forehead which woke you up. You blinked up at me. Emulating the last words you left me in your journal, I told you that I loved you and you pressed even closer.

* * *

...Having you here beside me, with a new notebook now in my hand I know this is your side of our ordeal, our time spent apart. You wrote quickly this time, using a cheap composition notebook. You did what you had to and I'm glad you were able to get things written down, as you had no one to talk to. I know it must have been hard for you just as much as it was hard for me.

I kept picturing your face while I was down there, remembering how strong you were after the explosion, after the attack. When the ants got in, I imagined your arms were wrapped tight around me, protecting me from them. You kept me alive, Greg, and I'm ever so grateful to have you here with me now.

When I look up, Grissom is standing in the doorway, confusion written on his face as he takes us in. I don't think he knows what to make of you wrapped around me in a hospital bed. I'm not sure anyone would know what to make of this.

I think he thinks you're asleep. But I know you're not. He's never seen you quiet. Probably doesn't even know you can be, or that you usually are most of the time. Just being with me seems to be the elixir of your life and I should know how that goes as you are the elixir of mine.

I tell him to come in. He's already witnessed our closeness. It would do no good to pretend it never happened later. He was going to ask something about the box. Or maybe he wanted to know if I was ok. But those questions have easily fled by now and been replaced by others.

You're still awake, yet you haven't looked up at our boss. That's ok. I can speak for both of us if I need to. Mentally, I try to remember how many years we've been together, but it's too many. I can tell him we own the house together, that we'd been seeing each other for at least a year and a half before we bought it...

But then he speaks, "I just wanted to make sure you were both doing ok."

Now you lift your head to see him and I know you're as shocked as I am.

"We all need someone," he continues. "I'm just glad you two have each other."

I think he even smiles before he slips out of the room and shuts the door behind him. I can hear him out in the hallway telling someone I'm asleep.

You look back at me and I can see the amusement in your eyes for a moment before it's gone.

I'm so tired right now... but maybe tomorrow you'll let me tell you what happened in words I couldn't use earlier with Brass.

Your fingers are gentle as they caress my face, and then your lips are brushing over mine and I can hear you whispering "I love you".

Sometimes I think we're not two separate people but one, surviving the world's evils together. I hope I never have to find out what life without you would be like, just like I hope you never have to live life without me.


End file.
